


conversations

by orphan_account



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drabble, Gen, i guess it's angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-30
Updated: 2014-03-30
Packaged: 2018-01-17 12:18:58
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1387357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the bad days, he lies outside with the sun hot on his skin, watching the clouds drift by. He curses his father then, aims the words in whatever direction he feels the wind blowing, and he pretends that when it suddenly picks up it’s his father yelling again.</p><p>On the good days, he dances with the wind. Imagines that the way it blows his hair is the ghost of his father, messing up whatever style his mother had attempted to carefully create that day with a small smile on his face.</p>
            </blockquote>





	conversations

**Author's Note:**

> when i was a kid and i was missing my dad, i would talk to the wind and pretend that it was him, so i made scott do the same thing.

His mother thinks that he misses his father, which is probably the farthest thing from the truth, because if he doesn’t miss bruises, or cuts, or the sound of glass shattering when it is hurled at a wall, then how can he miss his father?

He’ll give her partial credit, though, because sometimes he misses the idea of what his father could have been. He’s young, only ten years old and still ignorant about a lot of things, but he understands that there was once a softness to his father’s voice. He remembers hands that were not always punishing; hands that taught him how to tie his shoes and paint pictures so pretty his mother hung them up on the fridge with a smile that he’s been trying so hard to make her duplicate. 

“I hate you,” Scott tells the wind one day, knowing in the way that all ten year olds do that it will carry his words to wherever his father is. “But I still miss you. Mom misses you, too. She cries. I can hear her.”

On the bad days, he lies outside with the sun hot on his skin, watching the clouds drift by. He curses his father then, aims the words in whatever direction he feels the wind blowing, and he pretends that when it suddenly picks up it’s his father yelling again.

On the good days, he dances with the wind. Imagines that the way it blows his hair is the ghost of his father, messing up whatever style his mother had attempted to carefully create that day with a small smile on his face.

He starts to forget the sound of his father’s voice, so he pretends that whatever words the wind murmurs in his ears are said in the voice of the dad from the Lion King. He knows that his father never sounded as collected, but it’s easier to pretend that than to ask his mother what he sounded like.

“I don’t miss you anymore,” Scott tells the wind when he’s eleven years old and his mother is sleeping in her room upstairs. He’s snuck out of the house to stand in the middle of their front yard, looking up at the moon with a half smile on his face. “Mom doesn’t, either. I think we’re happy now.”

The breeze picks up, becomes something so strong it threatens to push him over but Scott just shakes his head.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

The breeze sounds like a moan.

He wonders if the wind can tell when he’s lying.


End file.
